“It is her wish.”
“Quite impossible. Where is she?”
“Standing in the companion.”
Courtenay saw that the girl could do no good now in that chamber of death; the mere memory of it would be an abiding horror. He wanted Christobal himself to send her away, but the doctor had taken off his coat and bared his arms. His appearance was grimly business-like.
“Will you tell her how much I am obliged to her for her kind thought. But you see—it cannot be permitted. Please say that I hope to join her in the saloon in a quarter of an hour. My work is nearly ended. I am sure you will make her understand that this is not a place for a woman.”
Again he swept the row of silent bodies with a comprehensive hand. Yet the trivial thought intruded itself on the sailor that this elegant old Spaniard delegated the task of explanation to him solely because he did not wish to appear before Miss Maxwell in a somewhat disheveled state. He dismissed the notion at once.
“How many?” he asked, glancing at the quiet forms which bore no bandages.
“Eleven, now. By the way, just one word. What chance have we?” Christobal put the concluding sentence in French.
Courtenay answered in the same language: “A very poor one. But I shall come to the saloon and warn you. That will be only fair, don’t you think?”
“Most certainly. Well—I may as well finish here.” And the doctor signed to his helpers to lift the next sufferer on to the table.